


To Find Our Beautiful Selves Again

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Sexual Tension, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:59:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newfound sexual tension and schmoop, in a world where Sam and Dean survive long enough to get their lives back. Hunting monsters + romantic comedy? It could happen.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	To Find Our Beautiful Selves Again

Time passes slowly when the world hurts most — and too damn fast in the moments of respite between — but in the end there's one inevitability that trumps.

Time passes.

For years, things get worse instead of better. There's only so much Apocalypse two guys can take, and of course Sam and Dean are stuck in the middle of it. Feels like there's nothing they won't do, not that they have much choice. They consort with angels, conquer Lilith, battle the Morning Star and defy Heaven itself.

Sam can't quite believe when they make it through.

The scars are there, both physical and otherwise. There's no unknowing what they've learned or unseeing the sights that have been permanently etched into their brains. But they've been fighting their whole lives, even if the battlegrounds have changed; and Sam and Dean both remember how to smile.

They get drunk a week after the world is supposed to end, because Sam figures they _earned_ it. The coast is as clear as it's ever going to be again, and when Sam says, "Dean, I need a drink," Dean is quick to agree.

They could find a bar. Plenty around, all open at this early hour of darkness. But the liquor store on the corner is open, too. They decide on a bottle of whiskey — splurge on the good stuff just this once — and head back to the car, the parking lot sleet-soaked gravel crunching beneath their boots.

Dean tucks their purchase in the trunk almost tenderly, and Sam elbows him in the side after he closes it shut.

The timing sucks, or maybe Dean's footing does; because even though it's barely a nudge, it almost sends Dean to the ground.

Sam's reflexes are honed instinct, more than up to the task, and he catches his brother easily. His own footing holds solid, and he ends up with an armload of Dean — leaning off balance against Sam's chest and looking startled as hell.

"Um," says Sam, and neither of them moves. Sam reminds himself that the parking lot is perilous, that Dean could still _fall_ and it would be dangerous to let go now. Dean blinks at him with wide eyes, too close, and the moment stretches from funny to awkward and then past that into Something Else Entirely.

It's dark out, deep winter evening, and there's no one else the entire length of the block. Nobody to see them except maybe the liquor store cashier if he's bored enough to be watching the security camera screen.

Dean finally moves, saving Sam from the pressing conundrum of what to do now. Sam lets go with unexpected reluctance as Dean steps away. He kind of wants to ruffle Dean's hair or squeeze his arm. Touch without discernible purpose.

Instead he says, "Dude, don't be a klutz."

There might have been a blush spreading across Dean's cheek before he said it, but Sam can't be sure. Can't see any such thing _now_ , as Dean scowls and hits him in the arm.

Sam watches every step, but Dean doesn't slip on his way to the driver's seat.

 

— — — — — —

The whiskey is good, Sam can tell — even though they're drunk a little too fast to appreciate it. It's almost sacrilegious, but Sam doesn't mind sacrilege the way he used to.

Only one of the beds has a decent view of the TV, so they pile up the pillows and settle against the headboard. Sharing is easy, even when Sam's pretty sure neither one of them is all that interested in whatever crime drama marathon they're supposedly watching.

There's a sleepy contentment in his blood, permeating the whole of the room. The whiskey coats his thoughts in a pleasant buzz, softening his mood even further. He looks at Dean and feels a tangible change as years of tension bleed away. It leaves him staring at his brother and surprised to be grinning so wide that his cheeks are already getting tired.

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him, a look that lays a pretty clear ' _Dude, what?_ ' out on the table. He looks like he's trying to decide if Sam's gone off the deep end, but the emotion in his eyes isn't worry.

"I thought we were drinking, not getting _high_ ," Dean ribs him.

Sam doesn't stop smiling as he says, "Sorry, dude, can't help the endorphins."

Dean snorts and shakes his head, but Sam doesn't miss the smirk that tugs at the corner of his brother's mouth.

They keep drinking until the useless hours of morning, a sedate pace that keeps the pleasant cocoon of warm buzz right where they want it. The television volume goes down by degrees, remote heavy in Sam's hand, and by the time the bottle is empty he's finally found the mute button. They shift and rearrange pillows as the hours slide by, and Dean settles off to dreamland well before Sam.

Sam stays awake as long as he can, fingers brushing along the collapsing spikes of Dean's hair.

When he falls asleep, it's with Dean's head pillowed on his stomach and a hand resting like ownership on the back of Dean's neck.

 

— — — — — —

They deserve the next day's matched set of hangovers, but it doesn't stop them from cracking into the emergency supplies. Recent restock, so there are plenty of good painkillers to go around.

Day after that, Sam calls Bobby just to check in. It's not paranoia. Nothing but a need to hear the man's voice telling him that yes, everything is just as quiet as it seems. No omens, no portents, no signs of heightened demonic activity.

Nothing but a world a little less screwed up than it was before.

"What do we do now?" Sam asks Dean, because for the first time in too many eternities they really have options in front of them.

But they're both pretty sure that bad stuff still needs killing, and it turns out neither one of them is ready to get out of the family business just yet.

"Maybe someday," says Dean, almost an offer; like he's terrified of keeping Sam in this life.

"Yeah," says Sam, but he's not sure he means it. Thinking about a life besides this one doesn't compute anymore, and for the moment they can still do plenty of good. That's what Sam needs right now, and he's pretty sure Dean needs it, too.

"Hey," he says when Dean looks serious for too long. "Want to go bowling?" They passed a place on their way into town.

" _Bowling_?" Dean doesn't look worried anymore. He looks more like he's trying to decide if Sam is still doped up on pain meds. "Sam, the last time we set foot in a bowling alley you were twelve."

"That's because you lost so badly you refused to take me ever again."

"Oh, it is _on_ ," Dean growls, poking him hard in the chest.

Sam resists the urge to laugh, holding his smug smirk in place instead. He grabs the offending hand mid-poke and tugs, just enough to pull Dean off balance; bring him close, so their faces are only inches apart when Sam says, "You sure you're up for this, Dean? It could be pretty humiliating."

Dean's eyes are on fire with challenge, bright and alive as he says, "Screw you, asshole. What's the bet?"

"No bet," says Sam. He keeps his voice silky smooth even though his pulse is picking up at the fact that Dean hasn't backed out of his space. "We don't need a bet. This is about honor, glory and me kicking your ass."

Sam follows through on his promise and then some. He beats Dean five games out of five; and even though the margin between their scores slims down with each game, it doesn't lessen Sam's victory. He's still got a fifty point lead when they close out their last frame.

He saves his confession until they leave, and Dean won't speak to him the entire drive back to the motel.

Sam placates him with pizza, and Dean finally says, " _Not_ fair, dude. You _played_ me. Should've _told_ me you and Jess were in a league."

Sam shrugs and says, "I figured you already knew."

Dean takes an enormous bite of pizza, but the lingering scowl on his face is mostly for show.

 

— — — — — —

A town like any other finds them beer and sports and a TV with bad reception, but Sam feels light with the victory of another hunt behind them. One more angry spirit forced to rest, and neither one of them got torn up in the process.

It's officially a good day.

The couch is lumpy beneath his ass, but it's hard to mind when Dean is sitting close enough that Sam can feel the warmth like his own. It's not a wide couch, just two big cushions and one arm is falling off.

Dean looks relaxed, looks like he doesn't mind the lumpy cushions either. He's got his beer balanced between his fingers, easy tip and swallow.

Sam doesn't realize he's staring until Dean catches him out. There's no point pretending it away, so Sam meets him head on. Let his brother make fun of him if he wants, because Sam finds himself staring a lot lately. Staring and pretending he doesn't know what it means.

Dean doesn't make fun of him, and doesn't look like he's going to. His eyes are heavy with something Sam can't read. He'd like to blame the messy fringe of his bangs for settling in his face and trying to obstruct his vision, but the truth is that this one's on him. Dean's eyes are trying to tell him something, and Sam can't quite connect the dots.

Sam doesn't physically startle, but it surprises him just the same when Dean raises a hand to brush Sam's bangs aside. Gentle and not quite deliberate, tucking them behind Sam's left ear.

Sam wonders if it's intentional; maybe his brother is just messing with him. The thought lasts until Dean's eyes go wide with realizing what he's doing, and he snatches his hand back like Sam _burned_ him or something.

Dean's face turns an instant pink, color darkening the familiar wash of freckles as he turns back to the TV; fast enough it's a surprise he doesn't get whiplash. Sam watches him take a drink from an empty bottle of beer, and decides to take pity.

"Dude, this game sucks," he says. Even though he's got no idea who's playing what anymore, let alone how the game is going. "Gimme the remote or find something better to watch."

Dean fumbles around next to the arm of the couch, and when he hands over the remote it's with all the grumbling they both expect.

Sam crawls into Dean's bed that night, once Dean's breathing evens out. He half expects his brother to wake, but he should know better. Dean's got no defenses when it comes to Sam. Not anymore.

Sam curls along Dean's back, nose brushing the nape of his neck, then drops an arm so he can set one hand on Dean's chest.

He falls asleep counting his brother's heartbeats, and in the morning Dean doesn't freak out.

 

— — — — — —

It's sort of a game and sort of not, but months later — in the middle of a Montana hunt — Sam decides that enough is finally enough.

They're far enough west for mountains, and early morning light splashes ready across the horizon. Sam stops his brother in a parking lot — Coffee Joe's — just a hand on Dean's arm to keep him from getting back in the car. Dean tilts his head, distinctive almost-inquiry that transitions into something else as Sam sets his coffee on the roof of the car and steps too close.

Sam's heart is stuck in a rush of adrenaline, but Dean doesn't back away from him. There's no flinch, no distinctive step to put the space back between them. Just Dean, watching him with a wild calm.

Sam thinks about what he could say here. Dean's arm is warm under his hand, Dean's lips pursed in a question neither of them needs spoken. Sam looks at him and realizes that nothing he says can ever mean everything it needs to. Words are useless futility.

He kisses Dean instead. Sudden and terrifying and inevitable; and his brother's mouth is surprisingly soft. Slick and warm and welcome, because when Sam teases his tongue along the seam of soft lips, Dean opens to give Sam further, deeper, _more_. Sam takes it all with greedy desperation.

Somewhere along the line, Sam realizes that his one hand at Dean's shoulder is nowhere _near_ enough. He makes a needy sound, embarrassing and low in his throat, and uses both hands to drag Dean forward hard. Isn't satisfied until his brother is pressed flush against him, even though a distant part of his brain recognizes pain and the hot splash of coffee down his jeans.

Dean makes a startled noise straight into Sam's mouth, and that's all the further they get as Sam realizes he needs to breathe.

He doesn't pull back far. Just enough for air, and without giving an inch of slack or space between them. He feels Dean's breath on his face, ragged counterpoint to his own, and Dean's eyes are closed. Dean's hands hold fisted in Sam's shirt, balance and reassurance maybe, as the world turns disjointed on its axis.

They're silent long enough that Sam's nerves settle back in, rattled and stubborn, and he whispers, "Dean?"

Dean shakes it off and opens his eyes, but he doesn't try to pull away when he says, "Christ, Sammy, you could _warn_ a guy."

Sam smiles, but it's too nervous and terrified to be genuine. He's trying to gauge his brother's reaction, and Dean isn't giving him much to go on.

"You okay?" Dean asks him, careful concern darkening his voice.

"I… don't know," says Sam, because what's the point of anything but total honesty now? "Are you?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" says Dean, and he looks genuinely confused.

"I just… thought maybe you'd be pissed," Sam admits, sheepish. "Shouldn't you be freaking out now?"

"A little late for that, isn't it?" Dean's smile is wry but real. "Come on, man, _tell_ me it wasn't just a matter of time."

Sam can't say otherwise, because he knows Dean is right. Incremental steps, maybe, but every one of them lead here. Dean in his arms, stubborn heat and teasing smile.

Sam drops his head to his brother's shoulder, nuzzling against Dean's throat. "Yeah," he whispers, and knows his meaning will be understood.

"Glad we could clear that up," says Dean, and Sam can hear the smile in his words. "You gonna buy me another coffee now, or what?"

Sam laughs, a low chuckle that he feels all the way down his ribs, and it breaks the moment into something lighter. Dean's coffee is all over his pants, and of _course_ he owes his brother another since it's Sam's fault, and on top of that they have a hunt to finish.

He steps back and away, and he's not reluctant about giving Dean back his personal space.

Not when Sam knows that from now on it's his for the taking.


End file.
